


Sherlock Holmes and the Season of Secrets

by a_different_equation



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Case Fic, Christmas, Community: holmestice, Disguised Sherlock Holmes, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Holmes and Watson singing together in the snow, Holmes knows Watson's favourite carols from his childhood, M/M, Murder Mystery, Mystery, POV John Watson, References to A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Romantic Fluff, Secret Relationship, Secrets, Sherlock Holmes Saves The Day, Snow, True Love, Victorian, Watson has a sweet tooth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21615535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_different_equation/pseuds/a_different_equation
Summary: Come Christmas Day Jacob Marley's daughter was lost and found, a mysterious break-in happened, a ship reached London under a new name, an informant got shot, and Captain Basil and his doc John made an appearance in a seedy bar.However, the case was only a subterfuge for something else...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 17
Kudos: 34
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2019





	Sherlock Holmes and the Season of Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to sangunity and cobaltblue, the mods of Holmestice, and to notjustmomj, my amazing beta.
> 
> Very loosely inspired by Charles Dickens', "A Christmas Carol", or more acurate, if it had been a case solved by Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. You can deduce what kind of a Ghost of Christmas I wanted to celebrate in the story :)
> 
> Happy Holidays!
> 
> Ade

Holmes is called a master of disguise but to call us masters of secrets might be more apt.

In our line of work, we have encountered numerous secrets, and some of them I revealed to the public. Depending on the client or the culprit, we have shared our knowledge with the police. We – I included – have known that Holmes observes more secrets the minute he lays eyes upon a person then the average Londoner sees in a lifetime. 

Even I, Dr John H. Watson, an eager pupil of his methods and his studied biographer, could never challenge him. Or so I had believed until a curious little case I later penned privately as  _ Sherlock Holmes and the Season of Secrets _ .

* * *

It was a cold and stormy day. The constant alertness to avoid falls, as well as the still dropping temperatures and with it, the demand for thick clothes slowed me down on my shopping trip through London. I felt weary and old, even though I was only middle-aged, as my limbs had been more pronounced because of the bad weather.

All I wanted was to be back in Baker Street already. There, warmed by the fire, tea and good company, I could appreciate the season. With Holmes by my side, our London was transformed, and I was not immune to its charm.

With Christmas approaching, I could spot ornaments and special offers in the store windows. Choirs were singing on my way and I caught myself humming along with a festive tune I remembered from my childhood. It wouldn't be long until the greetings of the season would be exchanged. I would have to come up with a hiding spot for Holmes' gift soon.

Our landlady, Mrs Hudson, was already planning. Only yesterday she had turned us out of Baker Street for her annual house cleaning. All too willing we had found refuge in the British Library. For hours, Holmes had been studying some Old English documents. Later we had visited a tearoom which might be a bit queer but a secret delight for Holmes. There he could observe customers who differed significantly from those who frequented the pub, for instance. Lastly, they offered the most delicious muffins, and Holmes had encouraged me to indulge.

Overall, I was looking forward to the holidays. It was a time for the quiet things, a moment of the sanctuary, of calmness, and as a doctor, I approved.

* * *

It was a few days after the third advent, and it seemed as if Christmas would be cancelled. I wanted to take courage and ask about the upcoming festivities, and most, unfortunately, it collided with Holmes' temper.

We, or more he had solved a mystery a week ago, which meant that boredom was his constant companion once again. Further, another cold front had hit our city this morning which made public transport a hassle. If there were any potential clients, they surely couldn't reach our doorstep safely. So far to the context of Holmes' ennui. He gulped down coffee, complaining that it was cold. He threw down the paper, fretting that the criminal classes had abandoned London, and overall, everything was lost since Moriarty had left the scene.

"Look out of the window, Watson, this weather should be perfect for crime! Alas, nothing happens."

He smoked his pipe so vigorously that his face grew even redder. That he drank coffee today instead of tea, I put down as an eccentric way to express his displeasure.

I placed down another of Mrs Hudson's delicious baked goods on my plate. Afterwards, I contemplated if I should delay my inquiry but I decided against it. In my long personal experience, Holmes yelled at everyone, except myself. And if Christmas faced his wrath for a second, I was positive that it could handle it.

"What do you think, Holmes: should we invite some friends over for a Christmas party?"

The doorbell interrupted us, and I breathed easier as seconds later, the good Mrs Hudson announced a visitor which surely meant a new client, and Christmas might just be saved.

Entering our living room, and it never ceased to amaze me how Holmes could switch moods, was a certain Jacob Marley, a wealthy, elderly man, a money lender by trade. 

When Mr Marley sat in front of us, he seemed to be the personalised Scrooge from Dickens'  _ A Christmas Carol _ : cold-hearted, small-lipped, ruthless. 

It might be the novelist talking, but I admit that I was wary of him at first sight. It wasn't helping that Holmes had almost ordered me to offer the man a brandy and that I should take Mr Marley's hat and coat. I hoped that Holmes had a plan and played along reluctantly.

"Good evening, sir. How can we help you?"

The man was nervous somehow, his fingers were twitching, and as a doctor, I was positive that it wasn't simply the body's reaction to the sudden warmth of the fireplace.

"Mr Holmes, I need your help."

My friend replied, a tad too eager to be polite: "Then, pray to tell, Mr Marley."

"My daughter has disappeared," he exclaimed, clearly agitated.

"Please, elaborate further, sir." Holmes urged our visitor on.

Our client hesitated, took another sip of brandy, then another, clearly stalling. Finally, he said: "It's my fault. I threw her out three weeks ago."

Holmes' eyebrows rose, and I was sure that one didn't need to be the world's only consulting detective to read my thoughts on the matter in my facial expression. My verdict of Mr Marley was made by now, and I was convinced that no one would challenge it.

"I was beyond myself, and I am sorry. It was wrong, I can see that now. But…" The man took another sip, then put down the glass with force, "the man was not the right one for her!" The last part of his tale was almost a shout.

My friend poured Mr Marley another drink himself.

"Sir, don't you think it to be wise to share everything with us? Mr Marley, pray, start from the beginning."

The moneylender let out a breath forcefully, glared at a fixed point in the room, and continued his tale, evidently struggling to contain his emotions. 

"It all began a month ago. My daughter, her name is Anna, she's barely twenty by then, brought…" - Marley reigned himself in - "introduced this man to me. This man was a seafarer. Not even from The Royal Navy, but a common seafarer. A sailor, can you believe it!"

Our client crashed his fist on the table. His drink was in danger of spilling. 

I tried to pacify him. "But Mr Marley, just because he's a seafarer, doesn't mean that he's a bad person."

However, I could not even add that it was her daughter's choice and give him some reasonable advice before I got interrupted by our client: "We all know such people are: on every finger a different woman. No, gentlemen, this man was not the right one for my Anna."

"Alternatively, it wasn't the one you wished your Anna should pick…" suggested Holmes.

"Well… you might be correct, Mr Holmes. I had found a perfect suitor for her already, my partner you see. A very respectable man, from a good background, settled and ambitious, and instead my Anna chose a sailor…" Before we could react - and I surely wanted to give him a harsh scolding, our client surprised us both by ending: "I regret my actions, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson. The minute I closed the door behind them I wanted to open it again and welcome him to the family. Alas, they were gone."

Mr Marley took a deep breath and another sip. Then he continued: "No, I want to be honest now: it took me almost a day until I saw the reason. Emotions aren't my strong suit, and for me, an arranged marriage was a reasonable prospect for my daughter. My partner is no brute, you must believe me, gentlemen. And as a man of my standing, a sailor as a son-in-law is a potential scandal. In the end, I wished my daughter to be happy, therefore I changed my opinion."

"Did you search for your daughter?"

"I did, Mr Holmes, for weeks I searched for her. I even went so far as to travel to her Aunt Lydia who lives at the seaside because I believed that she could hide them. Of course, I telegrammed her, but her reply sounded suspicious and they had been close since my wife's passing two years ago. As you can see, I tried my utmost, as well as informed the police but their hands tied. An inspector, his name was Gregson, suggested you. And here I am. Please, Mr Holmes, help me. If not for me, then for my girl."

Suddenly, I felt sorry for him. Our visitor looked completely deflated, all energy had left him. 

"Have you looked for the sailor, Mr Marley?"

"No…"

"But it is to be suspected that your daughter is with him, is it not, Mr Marley?"

"You must be right, Mr Holmes… However, where should I find such a - man?"

Holmes lit up his favourite pipe.

"I'll take the case, Mr Marley. We'll be in touch, sir. Good day, sir."

After our client had handed us a photograph of his daughter, Jacob Marley almost fled 221b.

* * *

It snowed all day.

Holmes disappeared after lunch, where I did not know as he did not confide in me. This occurrence wasn't unusual for me any longer, after sharing lodgings with Sherlock Holmes for years. I knew that neither feeling abandoned nor addressing the issue would improve anything. Time has taught me to follow Holmes whenever he wished for my company, and when he preferred to work alone to not distract him with my presence or to question his actions. Holmes was a man of habit, and he has chosen to make a habit of sharing his life since the fateful day in 1881.

While I was pondering going out myself - maybe a stroll through the park would do me good? - I heard someone talking with Mrs Hudson downstairs. Minutes later, hasty steps were approaching and then Inspector Lestrade appeared in the living room.

"Lestrade! To which we owe the pleasure? Holmes isn‘t here, in case it was him you were looking for. Isn‘t it a bit late for a social call? Should you not be home by now…"

The good inspector‘s face turned downcast. "Right on the spot, doctor. I promised my wife to be home on time for once, after all, it‘s December, and one tries to be cheery for the children... What should I say, Doctor Watson? All was set up, and then a telegram summoned me to the residence of Mr Marley…"

"Mr Marley!"

I could hardly contain myself. What an odd coincidence... Before I could inquire further, Lestrade continued his report, clearly misinterpreting my exclamation.

"Yes, the one. Mr Marley, London‘s most notorious money lender. His business is the new slavery, as his payment rates are that high that people will never be freed again. It‘s not illegal per se, but it should be if you ask me. Mark my words, Doctor Watson, half of London‘s poorhouses are victims of Marley. And all for his profit: he owns a third of Whitechapel, and one hears he has ambitions towards politics now. I shouldn’t say it, but as I’m practically off-duty, he’s a right bastard, Doctor Watson. Also, he’s an arrogant sod."

Lestrade’s face that had been red from the frost outside had retained its colour, now, from rage.

I hadn‘t been fully aware of Marley‘s background as well as of his character; typical of Holmes, to keep me in the dark. Yet I had to admit that Marley had kept his temper mostly in check while being here. Maybe, I mused, he cared for his daughter. It wasn‘t sure that unheard off: a ruthless businessman, but a devoted father?

I huffed something unintelligent and offered Lestrade a brandy. He gulped it down, clearly distressed.

"Apologies Lestrade, but Holmes left Baker Street forty minutes ago. I cannot tell you when he will return or where to find him. However, maybe I can be of assistance? The second set of eyes, inspector?"

I pointed to the fireplace, indicating the chairs. I held up the bottle of brandy, offering to pour him another glass. A glance to the growing dark and the ongoing snowfall outside voted in my favour.

"It‘s all so strange, Doctor. There‘s been a break-in at Marley‘s, you see. He was away for two hours as well as the housekeeper who went shopping, and it is Wednesday which means a day off for the rest of the staff. When he returned home, the front door was open. He entered with caution, hoping to catch the thief, but no such luck. When Mr Marley came into his study, he spotted immediately that the safe door was open. It was the perfect opportunity, and someone used it apparently: 2,000 pounds are missing."

"2,000 pounds? That’s a huge sum of money! Why did he keep it in the house?"

"I have no idea. It’s all very curious. But someone must know about it. And you know what’s even more strange?"

I shook my head.

"That the safe was Fort Knox. You needed the exact combination to open it, and the only person who knew it was Mr Marley himself."

Lestrade gulped down the rest of his Brandy, then, as if an afterthought, he added, "And there was no sign of a forced entry, no broken window, nothing. As if no one had been there, and yet, the money is gone."

Our clock announced the full hour, breaking the reverie. Spurred into action, Lestrade put on his coat and hat, turning to the door, "Thank you, Doctor. I’ll sort myself out. When Mr Holmes shows up, can you direct him to…"

"The address is known, thank you."

The inspector was stunned for a second, then thought better of it, and left.

* * *

A little bit later Holmes returned. Tired, he shed his outerwear and dropped into his chair by the fireplace.

"Ah, Watson, that was a pointless endeavour. No one could tell me anything about his sailor. I thought that someone could point me in the direction of a bolthole, where we could find the girl too. Yet, no such luck. Curious, if you ask me…"

"Speaking of curiosity…" I reported the recent encounter with Lestrade and the strange case of the stolen money.

Holmes' interest piqued. His eyes went alight. "That is indeed curious, old boy."

"The break-in, you mean."

The detective nodded. "We can extract the housekeeper from the equation for the time being." He lit up his pipe. "Someone has to have inside information…"

Looking at me expectantly, I rushed to say: "You think that the daughter…"

"It‘s a strong possibility, Watson. The father threw her out, she has no money, and maybe even possible, she wants to teach him a lesson. Two birds, one stroke, isn‘t that the saying?"

"Good heavens, Holmes, could that mean that this might be all a family drama?"

"That might be the case, Watson. However, this is simply a hypothesis now. We will see if we can inquire where she‘s hiding, if she‘s still with her lover, and if they have the money too."

"So...we have to wait and see, Holmes?"

Trancelike, I looked after his smoke rings. Once more I could not help but admire his long fingers and how they held his favourite pipe. They were perfect.

"Until tonight, my dear Watson. Then Captain Basil will make an appearance to investigate the taverns in the harbour district."

Captain Basil was one of Holmes‘ preferred disguises: my companion would put on his sailor outfit, let his curls loose and would smear some kohl and grease into his hair and face. Some people would not talk to Sherlock Holmes, but Basil would be chatted up regularly. It was all true: all women loved a sailor, and as I have learned, some men as well...

"May I accompany you, Holmes?" I waited for a second, then I added, "I played a doctor at sea once already, surely, I could repeat the performance? Only if it aids you, of course."

Holmes replied nonchalant, "Then we‘ll do it, Watson. A doctor is always needed."

"Then I am your man, Holmes."

"A revolver will also not go amiss, my loyal Watson." Holmes winked.

* * *

It was still snowing when we made our way to the London dockyards. The streets were deserted, not even a carriage was passing by. They would not pick us up as passengers anyway. 

I had shaved off my moustache. I felt naked and uneven, partly because of the odd looks my companion was throwing at me.

The first establishment was called  _ The Three Crowns _ . It was almost empty; Holmes aka Captain Basil swept a glance over the customers and we left immediately.

The second tavern was  _ The Anchor _ and almost instantaneously Holmes made his way to the bar. There, he lay his arm around my shoulder. I tried my utmost to not react. Looking at the barman, I suspected that even a more public display would not shock him.

"Slim," Holmes addressed him, "this is John, my new doc." Grinning widely, the barman, a hulk of a man, shook hands with us. Holmes ordered a beer.

"Bernie‘s here, Slim?" Holmes asked while we waited.

Slim shook his head, "No, Basil. Been a while." Then he whispered, while putting two beers in front of us, "Heard he‘s at  _ Jumping Jacks _ nowadays."

_ "Jumping Jacks _ ? Where‘s that?" Holmes tried to act nonchalant, but I knew that he had taken up the scent.

Slim gave us directions, covering them as much as possible as hand gestures. The barman didn‘t need to give us more details: even I could tell that he was afraid.

We stayed for half in  _ The Anchor _ . When we continued our path, the wind had roughened up the river. Waves were crashing against the docks. So close to the water, the snow has been melting, making everything slippery wet. Oh, how I wished we would be back in 221b already.

* * *

I will cut the story as the events of that visit will surely disturb the reader as much as it did myself at the time.  _ Jumping Jacks _ was a horrible place, distributing so-called pleasure in the filthiest manner. The bar was erected in the form of a shipwreck, and let me assure you, dear reader, it was the downfall of humanity we witnessed in  _ Jumping Jacks _ .

Furthermore, it ended with death: the informant whom Holmes wanted to meet in the disguise of Basil outside the tavern was killed before he could utter one word. The seconds during which I saw his figure falling, my eyes fixed on Holmes in the hideout, were one of the most terrifying experiences in the whole endeavour. I didn’t hear a sound, so I couldn’t be sure that the killer wouldn’t strike again and this time aimed for my companion. There were four meters between them, and what a difference it made.

"A knife, right into his heart, doctor,“ Holmes observed. A beat of silence, then, with a more stable voice, he added: "We‘re onto something, Watson... There‘s something sinister going on, something far more complex than a simple case of a daughter‘s disappearance." My friend surprised me with the urgent demand, "we should disappear as well."

While we were wandering through the empty streets of London, Holmes conversed out of the blue about the hypocrisy of Christmas: "They claim that it‘s all about love and forgiveness, and yet? For one day and one day only, the upper-class care that the poor get a meal in their belly, and the day after? They don‘t give a fig. If this is love, then I don‘t want it."

For a minute, we remained silent. Holmes was feeling uneasy because of his emotional outburst while I secretly cherished such moments. 

Maybe it was the season that let me reply with the sentiment: "But if it is loving every day, would you then want it?"

As it wasn‘t wise to utter such thoughts aloud, I tried to back-paddle.

However, Holmes surprised us both with a rushed, "not here." He even put his hand on my shoulder for a quick second, oddly but endearing. "Not now," almost a whisper.

As always I followed him, my heart light and my eyes as bright as the stars above.

* * *

"The plot thickens, Watson," Holmes said, sounding pleased, as he penned the first of three telegrams the next morning at his desk in 221b. Before Bernie had died the night prior, he had managed to slip a note into Holmes‘ pocket: 'Plymouth, 12th of December.'

Another telegram summoned Lestrade: he and his men should be ready by 11 p.m. The officers as well as their families wouldn't be joyous: today was December, 23th. Alas, crime didn't care for Christmas.

"One of Jacob Marley‘s ships will return to London Harbour then, and as I hope, Marley‘s son-in-law as well," was Holmes‘ way of explaining nothing, but building up suspense.

"Son-in-law?" I exclaimed. "But I thought that the seafarer was unknown to our client. That he had met him only days ago when his daughter brought him home?"

I was baffled.

"Not everything is as it seems, my dear Watson," Holmes said. "And this remains true in this case as well."

The third telegram was directed to our client: 'Case closed. Daughter on board  _ Santa Maria _ .'

According to Holmes, the solution was "elementary": our client was the ship‘s owner, he had reported it missing at sea, while it had been in Plymouth Harbour since — "exactly" —12th of December. Under its new name —  _ Santa Maria _ — it would reach London at 11 o‘clock. "And this is one of the ways the illustrious Mr Marley made his fortune: fraud."

How the daughter fitted into the picture, I learned at night. Wrapped in thick clothes while still feeling like an ice sculpture, we caught the culprit in the act: our client. Jacob Marley had hired us to find her, but out of sinister motifs: he wanted his daughter and his ship back while finding a way to get rid of the unwanted son-in-law who knew too much of his business.

His plan was possible to set his son-in-law up. Instead, it backfired spectacularly, including the revelation who's the owner of  _ Jumping Jacks _ and where the seedy bar got its cargo. There wasn't much holy about Santa _ Maria _ as the raid of the ship proved later.

Only in one aspect, Jacob Marley had been "correct": his daughter, Anna Johnson, born Marley, had been sailing with her husband Hans, since Plymouth. Until going on board the  _ Santa Maria _ , she had indeed been staying with her Aunt Lydia, who lived near the coastal town. They had been wed in secret, and as Holmes has observed, consummated the marriage: Anna Johnson was expecting a child.

Maybe it was this knowledge that spurred Holmes into action when the young woman wanted to take revenge: a bottle of vitriol had been in her hand in a flash. Quick and persuasive, Holmes convinced her to abandon it, to let go of the past and focus on a brighter future. 

Anna reported her husband’s involvement in the plot as well: Hans Johnson had committed a foolish mistake as a lad and had made a pact with the devil, Mr Marley. He had been the only one to hire him afterwards or so the influential businessman had claimed. Years later, it was true. With prospects gone, blackmailed into submission, Hans Johnson found himself at a dead end. He despised Mr Marley, countless times he caught himself in contemplating either taking his own life or that of his demons. 

Yet, love was a more vicious motivator. One look at the devil‘s daughter, his Anna, and his fate was sealed.

"Love will conquer it all," Anna Johnson had yelled, the vitriol ready that night, face to face with her father.

"Love is kind," Holmes had replied quickly and had taken it out of her hand swiftly. "Love is simple," he had added, and then had the young couple walk away.

Soon only Holmes, Lestrade and I remained at the pier. The police officers had dragged away from the now docile Mr Marley. Tonight was the end of Jacob Marley, notorious moneylender, blackmailer and insurance fraud. His criminal empire has fallen, and soon he would face the gallows: he was the one who had murdered Bernie.

It must be close to midnight when Holmes broke the silence. Since saving Anna and her unborn child, and convincing Lestrade that Hans would make a perfect witness to Marley's wrongdoing and in return the soon-little family should be offered protection, he had been unusually quiet.

Expecting a long monologue, the inspector, as well as myself, were surprised, when my friend solemnly stated: "a wise man has reminded me recently that criminal investigations contain always a space for personal moral and justice. I‘m quite pleased that we could verify this hypothesis so soon."

The wise man, who had reminded Holmes, had been me. 

If Lestrade suspected it, he didn't show anything. Instead, he took over from Holmes and concluded: "And what I don‘t know I’m better not knowin’." He wished us compliments of the seasons and we departed. 

Before Lestrade turned around the corner, he looked and our eyes met. Holmes had been right: Inspector Lestrade was the most capable of the Yard.

For some minutes we remained silent. Only after the bells had announced midnight - it was a new day, a rather special one, Christmas - we broke out of our reverie. 

"My dear Watson,“ Holmes said, clearly moved, "a wise man reminded me recently that everyone has a destiny. My responsibility might be solving crimes, but no one can force me to share the solution of the cases with everyone."

"I see," I said. A bit baffled but that wasn't an unusual occurrence in our partnership. I would catch on eventually, or my companion would have the patience of a Saint to explain it to me. Sherlock Holmes loved an audience, but in secret, I was his favourite.

Holmes reached out his hand to link it with mine for a flicker of a second.

"Let us go, Watson, my old friend. Let us seek sanctuary in our little paradise in 221b Baker Street."

* * *

On our way, Holmes was humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like my favourite Christmas song as a lad. Instead of asking how my companion had deduced it, I started to sing along, quiet and probably off-tune. And yet, whenever our eyes met, Holmes gaze showed only warmth and admiration. 

So we made our way through the snow, as content as two men can be. The snowflakes were so thick and heavy that they fell and covered our footprints almost immediately. 

Almost as if we have never existed in the first place.

* * *

The next morning, the snow was falling still. I couldn‘t remember the last time when London was transformed into such a wonderland.

Children were out on the streets. They were having a huge snow fight. Wiggins was putting his observation skills to another use. Holmes wasn‘t mistaken when he deduced our Baker Street Irregulars would win in under an hour. 

Which was the perfect timing as by then Mrs Hudson would have our dinner ready and the last gifts would be wrapped up.

When I returned to the living room, freshly shaven and in my best suit, all were decorated with wonderful Christmas ornaments. I learned that it had been Holmes’ idea, and even more curious still, he had set them up himself. God knows where he had hidden them in the first place!

I could not hide my surprise as well as my delight out of my voice. "Holmes, I thought you weren‘t a friend of the season?"

I rushed to light up the four candles: one for Anna, one for her husband, one for Holmes and one for myself. It might be a bit blasphemous for some people, but Christmas is all about love, and therefore it seemed right to dedicate the best wishes to us lovers. 

"What‘s on your mind, Holmes? You look thoughtful, if I may say so, old man. Not that you aren‘t constantly thinking but…"

"I cannot forget Anna and Hans, Watson. I dearly hope that the next year will be a better one for them. That their wish for a quiet life will be fulfilled."

"My dear Holmes! That you... what I mean to say is... such... sentimental thoughts are unlike you…"

"What should I say, my dear Watson? There are moments in which even I cannot hide my feelings. When it‘s a case of true love... Isn‘t that right, John?"

"I think... I hope... I‘m not sure…"

"John, my dear friend, someone like you is singular. It‘s good to know that you are at my side, always."

"Me too, Sherlock. And yet, everything else would be strange, wouldn’t it? Sherlock Holmes without a John Watson?"

"John: there are many John Watsons in London and maybe even a Dr John Watson, but you are mine. You, John, are not  _ a  _ John Watson, you are  _ the _ John Watson,  _ my John _ ."

Later, Holmes played a private concert for us. Mrs Hudson, always observant, got all teary-eyed and excused herself soon, proclaiming her intent to turn to bed early. "Merry Christmas, Mr Holmes! Mr Christmas, Dr Watson!" She said before she shut the door behind us.

In the end, we sat in our chairs by the fireplace, smoking our pipes, to our heart's content.

Holmes acted surprised when he opened my gift, and I was delighted at the two tickets for the New Year‘s Concert.

Before we went to bed, Holmes got up and I followed him. Together we were standing at the window, overlooking our street, and for some quiet moments, we would simply be: two men in love.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are love. Comments very welcome. Happy Holidays everyone.


End file.
